


Like Relationship Counseling (But With Bruises)

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Johnlock ficlets [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Because It's a Poppy fic, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fight!lock, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Switching, Top John, Top Sherlock, and a laugh to finish, but they're fighting for a case, fghtlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:12:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"God, you filthy bugger."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Relationship Counseling (But With Bruises)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YoursTruly (Lyscey)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyscey/gifts).



John pinned Sherlock hard with his whole weight against Sherlock’s shoulder, huffing hard against his ear.

“Sorry,” he muttered in a low voice, trying to catch his breath. “Sorry.” He’d laid Sherlock out with a heavy left, feeling Sherlock’s teeth clack hard against each other as his jaw shifted beneath John’s knuckles.

“Shut up,” Sherlock replied, and swung a leg up and around to thud his heel hard against the tender back of John’s knee. John yowled and rolled off him, stumbled a few steps away as they both regained their feet. They squared up, circling each other, panting. John’s eyebrow was split, a thin rivulet of blood trickling down his temple and onto his cheek. Sherlock tossed his head on his neck, beckoning John forward.

John narrowed his eyes and rotated his head slightly in a half-shake.

“Come on,” Sherlock demanded. John drew a hard breath through his nose and lurched forward, swinging a wide roundhouse that Sherlock easily avoided, side-stepping, whirling, and before John had even let go of his lungful of air, Sherlock had him in a chokehold. “Go to sleep now,” he taunted. The men surrounding the ring guffawed, cheered them on. “Time to sleep.”

John took the cue, made a show of struggling against Sherlock’s arm-bar across his throat—not tight enough to put him out but probably looked convincing from a distance—and slackened, his back against Sherlock’s chest, feigning a loss of consciousness. He tapped out against Sherlock’s forearm, weak hand sloppily slapping a  _one-two-three_.  Sherlock released him and John made a show of gasping for breath, slumping forward with his hands on his knees. The ring man raised Sherlock’s hand in victory.

Later, shuffling toward home through the humid air of a late-summer night, they passed a fifth of whisky back and forth, as much for its anesthetic properties as its intoxicating ones.

“Sorry again,” John said, half-smiling. “Didn’t realize your jaw was glass; thought you’d take that punch a bit better.”

“Don’t apologize. If we were caught pulling punches, our cover would be blown. I think after tonight’s bout, it’s almost certain word will get back to the higher-ups that I’m legitimate.”

John took a long, grateful pull off the bottle. “I won’t deny it was a bit. . .exhilarating. Getting my hands on you,  _that way_. A weekly dust-up might be just the thing for us.” He grinned.

“What, like relationship counseling?”

“But with bruises.”

Sherlock reached out to stroke one long finger down the side of John’s face. “Bit of blood, as well.”

“It’s fine. Lucky shot.”

Sherlock hummed, half-smiling, and let it go by.

After they’d walked a bit more, Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “How? ‘Exhilarating.’”

John laughed. “Dunno. Roughing you up a bit. You letting me.”

“As if there’s anyone else I’d ever trust to punch me in the face.”

“Don’t know which you value more, Sherlock: maintaining a good cover, or the prettiness of your face.”

“Depends on the case,” Sherlock joked. Then: “Tell me more about you roughing me up.”

John side-stepped so they were much closer to each other as they walked. The pavements were nearly empty; it was past midnight on a weeknight and most respectable people had long since tucked themselves in their beds. John slipped his hand onto the back of Sherlock’s neck, held fast. “Oh, you like that, do you? What if I wrestled you right up against that wall there, leaned my back hard against you so your chest was pressed against the bricks? You’d be gasping.”

Sherlock made a little sucking sound as his breath caught.

“Just like that,” John muttered, and didn’t let go, urging Sherlock forward. “That little backwards sigh you make—or what if I shoved you, right now, from behind, and you crashed down on all fours right there on the pavement. I’d grab you by your hair, like this,” John raked his hand upward, twisted Sherlock’s hair in his fist. “And yank your head back so your mouth would fall open, those gorgeous lips all pink and wet and ready for me. . .”

“Fuck’s sake, John,” Sherlock half-scolded, “I didn’t mean for you to write me a pornographic novel.”

John loosed Sherlock’s hair from his grip and they fell back into regular step.

“I might take my blog in a new direction."

“Be sure to monetize it; it’s very effective.”

John brazenly reached for the front of Sherlock’s trousers, found the thickened proof of his effectiveness there behind he zip. “Apparently so.”

“How much would you charge for more of the same?” Sherlock asked, archly.

John’s tone was casual, at war with the content of his speech as he replied, “You mean you’d like to hear about how I could wrench your arms behind your back, pin your wrists to your shoulder blades, shove you down onto your face and kneel between your knees so your arse is wide open for me? Or about how I might like to wrestle you into submission on the kitchen floor, hook my elbows under your knees so I can bite the arches of your feet while I fuck you? That’s the sort of thing you’d like to hear?”

Sherlock mock-stumbled, drunk on dirty talk. “Yes.  _Exactly_  that. How much?”

“That sort of thing can’t be bought with money, Sherlock,” John intoned with a shake of his head. “You’ll have to find another way to pay me for it.”

“Thank god, we’re home,” Sherlock gusted out, and thrust his key hard in the lock, shouldering open the door and tugging John in after him by the hem of his t-shirt. John crowded him playfully up against the wall, pressing his teeth against Sherlock’s throat. He grasped Sherlock’s wrists and pinned them at either side of his head; Sherlock mewled.

Raising his mouth to just below Sherlock’s ear, John shout-whispered, “I admit sometimes I’d like to slap that smart mouth of yours.” He caught Sherlock’s ear lobe between his teeth. “Then kiss it and make it better.”

“ _Up_ ,” Sherlock ordered, and shoved John toward the stairs. “Bedroom. Now.”

In a thunder of feet on the stairs, they practically raced each other; doors were not-quite-slammed, and once they were shut up safely inside came a chaotic unpeeling and they fell naked onto the unmade bed, kicking aside rumpled sheets, bodies already shimmering with perspiration in the summer heat. The window was open; the neighbors would almost certainly hear—might even see—but  _nevermind_.

Wide-mouthed kisses gave way to heaving breath and indulgent moaning, hands everywhere—hot skin, cruel whisker stubble, sweat beaded in the small of the back, thatches of hair thick with heady male scents—and they ended in a tangle of legs, face to face but leaning back and sideways on hyper-extended arms to stay precariously upright. Sherlock let loose a generous stream of cool, minty-smelling slippery across both their palms and each reached for the other, grasping, stroking, making ready with probing fingers.

John let out a deep groan as Sherlock swirled the tip of one long finger around the crown of his cock, caught the pearl of pre-cum gathering there and slowly drew his fingertip away, stretching the bead into a strand, and then a thread, then going back to try again. Meantime his other hand beneath John’s bollocks pressed in and then stilled, which made John thrust his hips a bit, always so desperate for

“ _More_. . .Jesus, Sherlock, stop experimenting and open me up so I can get that gorgeous cock in me,” John muttered, even as he grasped Sherlock’s shaft and began to steadily pull, coating him with slick, then thumbed back the foreskin to reveal the purpling head. Sherlock went on teasing out strings of John's pre-cum with his fingertip.

“I love how drippy wet you get for me,” Sherlock breathed, then brushed the sticky fluid across his plush lower lip. “I love to taste you.” His tongue flicked out lick his lip clean.

“God, you filthy bugger,” John huffed with a dirty smile. He withdrew his hands from Sherlock and shifted his posture, up on one knee, opposite foot flat on the mattress, hovering over Sherlock’s pelvis, leaning forward to catch his mouth in a desperate kiss. “Are you going to play around all night, or--?”

Sherlock growled. Steadying himself with one hand on John’s hip, he guided his hard prick forward, and up, and in. . .and through some miraculous distillation of flexibility, strength, and primal instinct, ratcheted his hips  _up_ , and  _up_ , and  _ **up**_ , into John’s slick hole, both of them grunting and huffing out ragged breaths.

“You want to slap my face?” Sherlock challenged, half-closed eyes meeting John’s bliss-hazed stare. “Go ahead.”

John groaned, some combination of lust and exasperation.

“It’s a one-time offer,” Sherlock rumbled, and rolled his pelvis under John’s, maintaining a firm upward pressure, searching for the spot. John shifted a bit, bit his lip, saw stars as he rocked himself against Sherlock’s cock.

John’s hand drew back as if he might actually let it fly, but at the last moment he clamped it around Sherlock’s jaw and pulled him into a hard kiss.

“Fuck,  _Sherlock_. . .” John sighed, and shifted again, desperate for the head of Sherlock’s cock to find its mark. He wrapped his hand around his own swollen, oozing prick and stroked, just a few times, then shifted his attention back to the feel of Sherlock thrusting hard inside him. “Feels good?”

Sherlock only gulped air and nodded his head, eyes closed, kiss-swollen lip caught between his teeth.

“I love to feel you come inside me,” John muttered, “Will you come for me, Sherlock? Will you come inside me? I want to feel it. . .”

“ _John_. . .” Sherlock grunted, and his hips pistoned upward once, twice, harder,  _harder_ , and his head and shoulders collapsed back onto the bed and he let out a series of long, low  _Oh_ ’s as his orgasm rocked through him decrescendoing waves.

John murmured encouragements, waited him out and then bent forward to kiss the corner of his mouth, the blade of his cheekbone, the dark bruise newly blooming on his jaw.

“So good,” John told him. “Now you.” They shifted, rearranged themselves so Sherlock’s long legs were tilted up high, his ankles riding John’s shoulders, and John spit on his fingers, shoved his hand between their bodies to find Sherlock already partly worked open for him. His saliva got the slick going again, and he pressed his fingers inside. “Your cum is already running out of me,” he muttered against Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock purred, slid one long-fingered hand down along the cleft of John’s arse, lifting himself slightly off the bed to reach around and down, until he was working busy fingertips in the mess of his own spunk oozing from John’s arse.

“You dirty thing,” John scolded, stretching Sherlock wide to make room for his swollen cock, “You’re going to finish me before I even get to fuck you, fingering me like that.”

Sherlock smiled, kissed John’s shoulder. “Hurry up then,” he teased.

“Shut your smart mouth, darling,” John parried, and grasped the rim of Sherlock’s ear between his teeth, and pulled, then lined up the fat crown of his cock between the plush cheeks of Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock dipped one finger into John, spreading his cum around the smarting and sensitive rim of his hole, and John shivered and pushed into him, making Sherlock whimper deliciously. He began to thrust, steady and slow, waiting for Sherlock’s body to become pliant and open for him.

“How am I still surprised by that enormous prick of yours,” Sherlock panted, his hips wriggling as if he were trying to get away and to get closer, both at once, “After all this time?”

“You’re so tight. . .god I love fucking you,” John grunted, and picked up his pace. Sherlock withdrew his finger from inside John’s arse and settled his grip onto John’s thighs, fingers curling to hold fast.

Sherlock began to hum—lazy, deep,  _mmm-hmmmm_ s urging John on. John obliged—driving harder into him, groaning, bracing himself, pinning Sherlock’s shoulders to the mattress.

“Come all over me, John, I want to see it,” Sherlock demanded. “I want to jerk your cock and watch your cum spurt all over me.”

“ _Christ_ ,” John cursed, well aware Sherlock was talking filth as a way to tip John over the edge. As ever, Sherlock wanted to exert his power, and manipulate. To a worthy end, John had to admit, in this case. “You’re trying to finish me.”

Another, even more self-satisfied  _mm-hmm_  from Sherlock.

“I could fuck you all night, you feel so good.”

“Except that you want my hand around your cock,” Sherlock muttered thickly, dancing long fingers over John’s sweat-sheened back, “You want me to pull you hard. You want to come all over my belly, all over my cock—christ, look at me, John, I’m half-hard again already, just thinking about rubbing my fingers in your cum, licking it off—“

“ _Fuck_ , Sherlock!” John shouted, biting down on it, backing his cock out so fast it made Sherlock catch his breath. John shifted, and Sherlock wrapped his hand around John’s swollen, fucked-red prick and it only took a few quick tugs before John was coming, swallowing a tormented shout, a cascade of thick, creamy cum streaking Sherlock’s concave abdomen, pooling in his navel.

“Beautiful,” Sherlock murmured, and dragged his fingertips through the trails. John collapsed down beside him, breath gusting, and pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock, rapt, dipped his sticky-slick fingers into his pubic hair, coating them with John's spunk.

“You’re decadent,” John told him with an amused sigh, and kissed his bicep. “It’s the fall of the Roman Empire with you.”

“I’ll dance for you, but then you’ll have to give me your head on a silver platter,” Sherlock offered, and he was rubbing his thumb against his fingertips, shiny with John’s semen, and he brought them to his mouth and licked them clean.

“Yeah, I’ll give you head all right. . .” John stretched, and yawned, and half-heartedly wiped some of his sticky bits with edge of the bed sheet.

“Next week will probably be our last visit to the fight club, you know,” Sherlock said quietly, still finger-painting across the pale skin of his belly. “Last chance to slap my smart mouth.”

John let his eyes close, but he smiled and nuzzled his nose against Sherlock’s neck. “Yeah, well,” he whispered, and kissed. “You’re asking for it.”


End file.
